


So Here I Am Alive At Last

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Vampire!Clint AU [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bucky loves him anyway, But it's okay, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Is Slightly Emo About Being A Vampire, Deaf Clint Barton, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Vampire Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: He’s not sure what happens, but the next minute Clint’s eyes are flicking towards him, something dangerous and feral in his stare. And there’s blood still smeared on the corner of his mouth. For a minute, he’s not entirely sure he’s not going to be attacked, because all he can think is that this isn’t a human in front of him, this is a predator.He’s not sure if he wants Clint to pounce on him or not.((REFORMATTED 24/09/18





	So Here I Am Alive At Last

**Author's Note:**

> Got an AU idea for me? Send it in @ my tumblr!

“Hey, Buck.”

He grunts.

“Have fun at training?”

“I don’t understand why I have to do drills when I’m a super soldier,” he grumbles.

Steve doesn’t stop sketching, nestled in his spot on the corner of the sofa. The sun’s shining on him in a way that makes his hair glow like a halo, and isn’t that depressing that his best friend looks like a literal angel and he can’t even be bothered wiping the mud off of his jeans. Bucky toes off his boots and sinks onto the floor by his feet with a sigh. He’s still not used to the way everything is so _soft_ around here. Well, the furnishing is. The people, not so much. He tips his head back on the couch so he can see Steve, the way the tip of his tongue is sticking out a little in concentration.

“It’s good for team building,” Steve reasons. “Besides, weren’t you with Clint and Natasha today? You like them.”

“I guess,” he concedes, because he does like them. They’d almost immediately adopted him into their group when he’d arrived at the compound, like they’d sensed he was still wary of being around Steve sometimes but didn’t want to be alone. He’d been relayed tales of their own misdeeds in an attempt to offset his guilt about HYDRA- Bucky still can’t believe Clint used to be part of a circus crime ring, it was ridiculous. He did like them- especially Clint and his ridiculous aim and wild grin.

But.

“Stevie,” Bucky starts, hesitantly. “Why does- why can’t I hear Clint’s heartbeat?”

Steve looks up from his sketchbook then, the charcoal in his hand stilling. He looks… uncomfortable, and unsettled in a way that means Bucky’s onto something and not just overreacting. His eyes are a few shades darker than Clint’s, deeper but less saturated somehow. Clint’s eyes are crystal-bright, almost luminous in the right light, almost inhuman. And he knew a lot about feeling inhuman, being inhuman, but this was completely beyond him. Hawkeye was marketed as the human Avenger, the ordinary man with the extraordinary talent and energy to keep up with machinery and super soldiers. And yet. Normal humans had heartbeats. Normal humans weren’t normally cold to touch without being sick or dying. And shit, what if Clint was dying? He couldn’t be, he was only- actually, Bucky wasn’t sure how old he was, now he thought about it, but he couldn’t be more than thirty.

“At first, I thought it was just quiet, but I was on top of him in training-” and Steve raises an eyebrow at this and Bucky fights the heat rising to his cheeks in favour of concentrating on the topic at hand “-and there was nothing. Not even a muffled thump.”

And he’d _listened_. He’d used his weight to his advantage, had pinned Clint’s wrists down on the mat as well, and there hadn’t even been the flutter of a pulse against his fingertips. Just those bright, amused eyes, tracking him with something that had reminded Bucky of the snakes HYDRA had kept once.

“You remember those stories about old Mrs Bogdan up on the hill?” Steve asks the question while averting his eyes over to a stack of upturned books by the armchair.

Bucky frowns, flickers of a black-veiled woman huddled against a wall while children threw pieces of fruit at her passing through his head in that faded way all of his memories appeared in. “She was always wearing all black. People were scared of her.”

“That’s her,” Steve agrees. “You remember _why_ they were scared of her?”

“They thought she was a va-” Bucky starts, and then stops.

Wait.  
  
_What_?

 

“Vampires aren’t real,” he says. Except. There were aliens, and Norse gods, and a red robot man with a shiny gem in his head, so maybe he was being too judgemental. But _vampires_.

“You’d think so,” Steve answers. Looks down at the sketchbook in his lap, smooths a thumb over one of the lines on the page carefully. “They’re not- I don’t know much about it, Buck, you’d have to ask him. He doesn’t talk about it that often.”

“Does he drink blood?”

Steve laughs at that. “I guess? I’ve never seen him drinking it, though. Just coffee and tequila.”

“Hmm.”

“He’s not dangerous though, Buck,” Steve says, softly. Reassuring.

Which isn’t fair, because he’d only shot Vision in the leg that one time, and knocked Wanda out the first time he’d seen that red miasma. He’d been nervous and jumpy the first rocky weeks at the compound, out of sorts with memories assaulting him every few seconds. But he knew Clint, had been gifted with coffee and bad movies and a glock, in one particular occasion when they’d taken his all weapons from him and he’d squeezed himself into a vent during a panic attack. He _trusts_ Clint, vampire or not.

“I ain’t worried about him swooping down from the darkness to drink my blood,” Bucky answers, when he realises Steve’s still watching him. “You said it first, I like him.”

“Yeah,” Steve says with some relief. “Yeah, I know.”

 

**

 

The next time he goes down to training, he’s armed with all of the information on vampires FRIDAY could glean from the expanse of the internet.

He’s pretty sure most of it is bullshit, to be honest- he’s seen Clint out in the light, and he definitely doesn’t sparkle or any shit like that, although Bucky’s pretty sure he puts something on his skin like sunscreen. He can smell it, and he wonders if Clint has any supernatural senses the way he and Steve do. If he does, he’s hiding it pretty well. He hasn’t seen the blond anywhere near a church, but Wanda has a cross on a silver chain around her neck and Clint’s never flinched away from a hug from the girl the whole time they’ve been here. He’s seen Clint’s reflection before, too, and seen him cross running water- although he actually fell into the river that one time.

Natasha’s sparring with Wanda when he gets to the gym, Vision surveying their moves from afar. Bucky takes a seat next to him and watches the careful grace of Natasha’s moves as she kicks out at Wanda’s leg. They’d taken turns giving her tuition on self-defense, because having powers only got you so far and even Tony was learning to fight without the suit to help him just in case. Wanda is fast, but she’s lacking technique and finesse and Bucky watches with a small burst of pride as Natasha knocks her down again and again and again.

“Her balance is skewed to the left slightly,” Vision notes.

“Mm,” Bucky agrees, when he watches Wanda stumble and fall. “She’s got the moves down, but little things like that mess her up.”

“Would it… would it offend, if I told her?”

Bucky shrugs. “No clue, pal.”

Vision turns to him, a barely-there smile on his face. “I was told you were something of a ladies’ man a long time ago, Sergeant Barnes.”

“A long time ago,” he agrees. “Don’t know what women these days like. Can’t take ‘em dancing no more. Lots more places to take the men, though. ‘s nice. You sweet on her, then?”

“I am,” Vision admits, and Bucky glances back at Wanda, at the defiant spark in her eyes as she twists out of Natasha’s hold, hooks an ankle around her knee and tries to tackle her to the ground. And yeah, fair enough. She doesn’t do anything for _him_ personally, but he can imagine why Vision might feel that way. Come to think of it, he didn’t know androids could even feel things like that, but hey, it’s the future, and if they’re happy, good for them. Wanda’s pretty, smart as a whip, and she and Vision seem nearly inseparable. Maybe they understand each other, in some abstract sort of way.

Wanda finally manages to get Natasha under her, pressing her arm against her back triumphantly, and that’s when Clint drops from the roof and knocks her away with an audible thump. Bucky looks up at the beams crossing the ceiling and calculates the distance from there to the mats, and no human would be able to do that comfortably, landing in the position the archer had. Even for him, it’d be hard on the knees. But Clint just cackles and rolls away from Wanda’s kick, pulling Natasha to her feet once he’s out of range. Wanda throws a punch at him and he lets it land, grabbing her arm along the way and twisting her onto the ground. He settles a bare foot on her stomach and grins triumphantly. Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Pay more attention to your surroundings,” Clint instructs Wanda.

The telltale red glow appears around her hands and Clint’s tossed off, landing at Bucky’s feet. His hair’s ruffled to hell and he’s wearing a thin shirt that’s almost see-through at this angle, and Bucky swallows reflexively at the play of muscles he can see as Clint sits up, gives him a mocking pout. He doesn’t seem to be hurt, though.

“Tell her that’s cheating,” Clint insists, looking at him.

“Your fault for ganging up on a trainee,” Bucky answers dryly. “You don’t wanna play fair, she doesn’t have to either.”

Wanda gives him a smile from where she’s getting off of the mat, but Clint gives him a wounded look and rises to his feet. From this close, Bucky can see the outline of butterfly stitches against his side. Apparently vampires still got hurt- come to think of it, Clint was injured a disproportionate amount of time. Even now, apart from the stitches, Bucky can see a band-aid on his elbow, and a yellowed bruise blooming on his jaw. And that’s only what’s visible above the waist. Clint stretches, spine arching comfortably, and Vision gets up to float over to Wanda.

“You want to take her place, then?” Clint challenges.

“Against you and Natalia? Sure.”

“Oh, no, not today,” Natasha comments as she walks past, heading for the exit with Vision and Wanda trailing behind her. She’s barely broken a sweat, and her smile is more in her eyes than her lips when she waves to them and picks up her water bottle. He wonders if she knows- she must know, her and Clint are platonically married, almost. “I’m done for today. You two can entertain each other.”

When he turns back to Clint, there’s a glint in those blue eyes. “You sure you can take me without any dirty tricks?”

Clint snickers. “ _Take_ you? I could do that with my hands behind my back, Barnes. But not until the third date.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, ignoring the heat in his cheeks at the thought. God, that was a nice idea, though. He pushes the thought of sex with Clint aside with some effort and gets to his feet, shrugging off the oversized hoodie he’d been hiding in. The arm recalibrates with a quiet whir as he approaches the mat, Clint following him quietly. When he reaches the center he turns around and Clint doesn’t even give him a second to prepare, just swings at him immediately. Bucky’s reflexes kick in and he blocks with his right hand, not even taking a step back to readjust before he’s returning the punch with his left. Clint ducks, lightning-fast, and goes in to sweep his legs, but Bucky uses his movement to slide to the side and knock him onto his stomach.

Clint doesn’t attempt to get up, just rolls onto his back and frowns, staring up at him from where he’s lying between Bucky’s feet. But Bucky’s frowning too, because judging from what he’s seen and now he’s actually thinking about it, Clint’s definitely stronger than an average human, but he’s not using any of it.

“Why do you hold back?”

He holds out a hand and Clint lets Bucky pull him to his feet.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Clint says breezily, and he’s a good liar, but.

“There’s no fuckin’ way you hit me with your whole strength,” Bucky answers. “Between that ridiculous bow you use and the way you landed when you jumped from the ceiling, I couldn’t have blocked you that easily if you were.”

“Well, I’m so sorry that the poor Hawkeye doesn’t match up to the century-old supersoldier assassin,” Clint retorts, folding his arms over his chest.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Do you pretend to be human so people will feel sorry for you?”

Clint takes in a sharp breath at that, something panicked in his expression, and Bucky’s worried that he’s crossed a line. Maybe the whole vampire thing is something they’re not supposed to talk about, like Natasha killing that one SHIELD therapist or the way Steve looks when he can’t remember something from the past. Then Clint lets out the air with a sigh, grimaces like he’s smelled something bad, and the panic’s gone as quickly as it came. Bucky tucks his metal arm into his pocket and tries to look as nonthreatening as he can manage.

“Steve told you,” Clint says, looking deflated.

“My fault,” he corrects. “Was wonderin’ why you didn’t have a heartbeat. Me and Steve, we can hear things like that, normally.”

“Heartbeat, no, you traitor. Yeah, I guess that’d do it,” Clint mutters. His eyes flick up to Bucky’s face, vulnerable, and then over his shoulder into the distance. “Are you- you’re not going to throw garlic or something at me now, are you?”

“I don’t like garlic. It stinks,” Bucky admits. He doesn’t like that he’s put that look on Clint’s face, made him uncomfortable. “But seriously, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“ _I_ do,” Clint says, quiet. “I don’t- I didn’t choose this, Barnes.”

“I know a little something about that,” Bucky agrees, just as quiet.

Clint’s eyes flick back to his face, then down to where the scarring around his left shoulder’s visible with the black singlet he’s wearing. He knows how bad it looks, and. He’s got no clue what happened to Clint to make him like this, what it feels like being a fucking __vampire__ , but he knows intimately what it’s like to be ripped apart and put back together until you don’t recognise yourself in the mirror. He thinks maybe he’s overstepped a line for a second, but Clint just nods in silent acknowledgement. Yeah. Clint understands.

“Punch me for real this time,” Bucky insists, trying to break the tension, and Clint’s face breaks into a relieved smile.

 

**

 

“Barnes,” Sam greets, neutral.

“Wilson,” Bucky returns, walking past him.

Sam’s sitting on an armchair, a few empty beer bottles on the coffee table in front of him. It’s not an unusual scene, fairly common to see the other lurking around their space. It’s not- it’s not _bad_ , per say, but he’s not always sure about Sam, with his knowing looks and his quips. Steve’s nowhere to be seen, which is weird because this is Steve’s suite, but he’ll be around. Bucky makes his way to the mini-fridge and inspects the contents. The fridge is technically Steve’s, but all it really keeps is beer for everyone _but_ Steve. There’s two bottles left, so he snags one and flicks off the cap with the metal hand, sinks down onto the couch.

Sam’s dark eyes are still on him, assessing silently, and this is why he doesn’t like Sam Wilson. Because he can read people like books, and somewhere along the way from being the Asset to being Bucky Barnes he’s forgotten how to hide his expressions properly.

“How’s Clint going,” Sam says, and it’s not quite a question, the way he says it.

“How’s Steve?” Bucky shoots back, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“You know how Steve is,” comes the dry reply. “You see him every day.”

“I ain’t getting into your relationship with him, though,” Bucky answers grumpily.

“You admitting you’re in a relationship with our resident creature of the night?”

Did everyone know about Clint’s being a vampire before him? Sam and Clint weren’t even close- it was probably Steve, the unbearable gossip. He was going to have a stern word about privacy after this, because despite the fact Clint was a total disaster, he didn’t seem comfortable about what he was and he deserved to be left alone about it. Bucky huffs out a breath and leans back, looking up at the ceiling like it’ll save him from Sam if he prays for it hard enough. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work, and instead Steve appears from the bedroom, pulling a green t-shirt over his head.

“Who’s in a relationship?” He asks.  
  
Sam smirks and Bucky contemplates throwing his beer at the man, but he’s only drank a few mouthfuls and it’s a terrible waste. Also, Steve wouldn’t approve of his best friend assaulting his boyfriend. He sighs instead, and Steve looks between him and Sam contemplatively before he takes a seat next to Bucky. It’s probably only because there’s space on the sofa rather than any favouritism on Steve’s part.

“Do you… like Clint?” He asks Bucky a minute later.

Sam snickers at them loudly and Bucky throws his sock, because he can afford to lose that rather than the beer. It lands soundly on top of Sam’s head and he stops laughing immediately, looking affronted. Steve ignores it though, keeps looking at Bucky with bright, interested eyes, and _does he like Clint._  Of course he does. But it doesn’t matter whether he likes Clint or not, does it? He has no clue if Clint even likes men, and even if he did, Bucky’s- Bucky’s a fucking mess, a murderer and grumpy even on his good days, and even if it feels so natural sometimes, like he should be leaning in to kiss him instead of making some clever quip, it’s not going to happen.

Steve’s still looking at him, with a little pleased smile like he thinks Bucky’s crush is a _good_ thing. He knows it definitely isn’t. Sam pulls the sock off of his head and tosses it to the floor.

“I’m not. It’s not,” he starts. Stops.

“Buck,” Steve says, looking sad. “You could ask him, you know.”

“No,” Bucky says. “I- I’m not. I can’t.”

“If you’re sure,” Steve answers, subdued. He feels a quick pulse of anger at that, at the expression on Steve’s face, because not everyone gets to just ask someone out on a date and have a fucking happy ever after. Steve just wants him to come back from seventy years of brainwashing and be normal, go out and make friends and go on dates and- and. And he’s not sure he can. He’s not normal, he doesn’t remember how to be normal anymore.

“You deserve to be happy, Buck,” Steve says softly, and Bucky looks down at his knees. Can’t think of anything to say to answer that, because he’s not sure he does deserve to be happy.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sam butts in. “Barnes, stop being such a fucking drama queen. Moping doesn’t help anyone.”

“Fuck off, Wilson,” Bucky spits. “It’s _my_ life, not yours.”

“Exactly! It’s your life. Go after what you want instead of spending your time thinking about what you could be doing,” Sam says, and actually, he has a point, but Bucky’s not going to tell him that. He throws his other sock instead.

 

**

 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid fucking phone,” Bucky mutters, smacking the screen lightly with his left hand. It makes a dull pinging noise and then the light on it winks out. Well, looks like he’ll need yet another new one. Great. Stark’s going to laugh at him again.

He sighs and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans and leaves his room. It adjoins with Steve’s, when he’s actually here, but Captain America is away at a social gathering with Natasha and Tony, so Bucky’s left here with his broken piece of technology at ass o’clock in the morning. He’d been trying to buy a book Wanda had recommended to him, some sci-fi piece with a glass-green cover, but to no avail. Maybe there’d still be some of the Chinese takeout from yesterday in the fridge to fix his mood. Or at least his stomach- the AI had recorded his calorie intake once, and it had been embarrassingly high.He rounds the corner into the kitchen and realises belatedly that he hadn’t listened to see if anyone else was around, because Clint’s standing against the counter.

Bucky stops in the doorway and Clint’s shirtless, his chest almost luminescent in the moonlight, sweatpants sliding low on his hips where Bucky can see the waistband of his (very purple) boxers. That’s not the thing that makes Bucky pause, though. The thing that makes him halt in his tracks is the clear bag in one of Clint’s hands, tipped up so the dark liquid is pouring into Clint’s mouth. His heightened senses pick up on the smell of rust and copper and registers _blood, Clint’s drinking blood._ He stares silently as the blond drains the bag and then drops it to the counter, breathing heavily. His lips are parted enough that Bucky can see the glint of teeth- no, _fangs_ \- in his mouth and his own breath catches in his lungs, something foreign twisting in his stomach.

He’s not sure what happens, but the next minute Clint’s eyes are flicking towards him, something dangerous and feral in his stare. And there’s blood still smeared on the corner of his mouth. For a minute, he’s not entirely sure he’s not going to be attacked, because all he can think is that this isn’t a human in front of him, this is a predator.

He’s not sure if he wants Clint to pounce on him or not.

Bucky doesn’t move an inch, still staring in some mixture of fear and awe and unexpected arousal, but Clint blinks once, slowly, coming back to himself, and then he’s whipping around to smack his own forehead against the fridge.

“Fuck,” Clint spits.

“It’s- it’s fine, Barton. Was just gettin’ some food, got no problem with you doing the same,” Bucky says, trying for casual and ignoring the way his voice wavers a little.

“Got no problem,” Clint repeats vehemently. “Got no _problem_? Barnes, I’m eating a fucking blood bag I stole from the hospital. I don’t know what HYDRA taught you, but that’s not normal.”

“Don’t they put chemicals in that shit? Is it okay to eat?”

Bucky takes one step closer, and then another. Clint’s back is heaving, fast and panicked even though he doesn’t technically have to breathe at all. He settles his right hand between Clint’s shoulder blades, and he’s still so cold, too cold. Clint freezes, but Bucky lets out a quiet sigh and rubs his thumb along the bumps of his spine in small circles, doing his best to be comforting. He can’t imagine what it’s like, being like this, but he can offer what comfort he can nonetheless. Clint trembles under his hand, almost imperceptible, and his forehead hits the fridge again, although much less violently this time.

“It tastes like ass,” he admits after a minute, barely audible. “The chemicals make me feel sick. Most of the time I try putting it in my coffee so it masks the taste.”

“Are there… alternatives?”

Clint sighs, resigned. “I tried animals once, but…”

“No good?”

“Bruce tried to give me the science on it once,” he answers quietly. “But it’s just- it’s not enough. I need it from humans.”

“Could we try donations or something? I dunno,” he suggests, still rubbing small circles into cool skin. “Maybe we could take turns drawing blood, Banner’s got the equipment, right?”

Clint whirls around at that, almost too fast for Bucky to register. He doesn’t flinch, though, breathes in steadily and tries to ignore the way his heart thumps in his chest when Clint leans up, their noses nearly touching. He doesn’t look as distinctly inhuman as he had earlier, but there’s still something dark and burning in his eyes and when Clint snarls at Bucky, he gets an eyeful of sharp fangs. They’re thinner than he’d expected, sort of delicate in that instinctively violent way, shining dully in the moonlight. He doesn’t move away.

“You don’t willingly offer yourself up to a _monster_ , Barnes, you idiot,” Clint says lowly. “How did you survive for a century if you’re that naive?”

He doesn’t take the bait.

“You’re not a monster,” Bucky says quietly, certainty in his voice. Clint takes a step back at that, palms flat against the fridge, and with this view he can see the scarring just above the curve of the blond’s collarbone, indicating a wound in a place he certainly shouldn’t have survived from. More unnerving than that, though, is the smile on Clint’s face, baring fangs, the feral light back in his eyes. Instead of attacking like he’s half-expecting, though, Clint tosses his head back and _laughs_.

“I really am,” he informs Bucky before he’s wandering past, disappearing into the hallway and leaving Bucky with a head filled with static and an empty hospital blood bag.

 

**

 

“Okay, so these people have extremely dangerous close-range weapons. This,” Tony starts, waving at the hologram that appears in front of him, “is what they’ve been selling.”

The weapon looks like a simple handgun, but the barrel is tapered into a sharp point. It’s a curious shade of silver, and Bucky has the oddest feeling he’s seen it somewhere before. Across from him, Natasha is eyeing it like it might come to life and attack them if she takes her stare off of it. Clint is dozing against the curve of her shoulder, looking as soft and vulnerable as he normally did. Bucky’s not sure how he manages to look that harmless, not after what he’d seen the other night. He’s not scared, not even a little, but every time he thinks about Clint with blood smeared dark on his teeth his brain starts buzzing.

“It has a range of about thirty meters, but it sends out a sort of sonic pulse that disrupts anyone in the area. It causes immediate, violent convulsions, internal bleeding, and then a very painful death.”

“We need to destroy them,” Steve says firmly.

“Yes, that’s the plan, Cap,” Tony answers dryly, looking annoyed briefly. “We’ve found their base, and it’s not particularly large, so we’re not going to risk any close-range fighters. It’s kind of like the Stark Sonic Taser, so we’re guessing it won’t work on Barton if he takes out his hearing aids. He’s our best sniper, too, luckily.”

“You’re not sending him out alone, surely?” Wanda crosses her arms.

“Nah, he’d probably trip over a tree root and break his neck or something,” Tony says dismissively. “I thought we’d give Barnes a rifle and let him go to work.”

“Just Clint and Bucky?” Steve queries, looking concerned.

“As fancy as their weapons are, the organization has maybe twenty, thirty people in it. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“I’ll be fine, Stevie. Hold your horses,” Bucky cuts in as he sees the expression on Steve’s face. He doesn’t need the overprotectiveness; he didn’t need it when he first came back and he certainly doesn’t need it now he’s more or less stable. He’s perfectly capable of going on missions and shooting a few people, even if he’s not going to go for the headshots anymore. Anyway, it’s not like they’re sending him out there alone- between he and Clint, they’re probably the best long-range shots to be found on this god forsaken planet.

Clint yawns against the leather of Natasha’s jacket and blinks his eyes open sleepily.

Actually, maybe they should have backup, if just because he hasn’t managed to get Clint alone since that night. It’s not that Clint’s acting weird- it’s the opposite, Clint’s been teasing and bantering and complaining exactly the same way he’d done before. But when Bucky catches his eye, there’s something dark there that hadn’t been there. Bucky doesn’t know how to insist to Clint that no, he isn’t a monster, he’s just _different _,__ and he doesn’t know how to make it sound believable when he still thinks he himself is a monster, some days.

Tony claps his hands together triumphantly. “Alright! Now that’s sorted, Capsicle, Fury wanted you to go visit his hiding hole.”

“Later,” Steve says, grabbing Bucky’s elbow as he tries to escape. Bucky obediently lets him lead the way to a deserted corridor, because even at five foot nothing Steve Rogers was a stubborn little shit, and now he has the muscle to back it up. He lets go and leans up against a wall, looking as concerned as he had when he’d found the knife stash under the couch. Bucky scowls at him, folds his arms against his chest. He’d put the knives in a gap in the ventilation system where Steve won’t fit, so it can’t be that again.

“Do you,” Steve starts, pauses. “Do you have a problem with Clint now you know he’s-?”

“ _What_ ,” Bucky says, aghast. “Why the fuck would I- I don’t care if he’s an alien, or he’s a fuckin’ tree, I don’t give a shit, Steve. He’s- there’s nothin’ wrong with him, not where it matters.”

Steve looks relieved. “I’m glad, Buck.”

“Why would you think I have a problem with Clint being a vampire?”

“You two seemed… off, somehow,” Steve admits. “I was worried you didn’t feel safe being alone with him while you’re on this mission.”

“It’s not about me, it’s about _Clint_ ,” Bucky says, frustrated, and he’s saying too much. “He’s- he’s been all weird since I found out. It’s shit, but I can’t just fix how he feels about bein’ who he is, same as he can’t fix how I feel about all the people I killed.”

“That wasn’t-” Steve starts, and Bucky points one metal finger at him.

“Exactly,” he says. “That’s exactly what I was talking about.”

Steve falls silent, and Bucky starts thinking about whether he and Clint are actually going to talk about things on this mission. Probably not, knowing how they both are. But maybe they don’t need to talk about the depressing stuff anyway. They’ve had enough shit for a lifetime between the two of them. He offers Steve a half-hearted wave and heads off to pack his bags. At least Clint won’t judge him for his disproportionate amount of knives.

 

**

 

They’re sitting perched in a tree when Clint looks at him, something vulnerable in his expression.

The base is down the hill, but Clint likes height and Bucky doesn’t mind it, so they’d scaled up the old oak without much trouble. It’s a good spot to survey the base and the land around it without drawing any attention to them. They’ve cleared out the base already, packed away the weapons ready for SHIELD operatives to come and take away, and now they’re just waiting to see if any reinforcements arrive. It would be boring if it wasn’t for the company, Bucky realises. Clint goes for killshots immediately, not allowing for any error, and even though Bucky refuses to murder anyone anymore, Clint happily takes it in stride and began shooting for kneecaps instead.

His rifle is slung over his shoulder, and Clint’s loosely gripping his bow with one hand, left foot tucked neatly under the thigh of his right leg. He’s got a new band-aid on his cheek, high on his cheekbone, and Bucky wonders why it’s even necessary. The afternoon sun is dappled, making odd little patterns through the leaves of the tree, and it’s nice. Bucky hasn’t brought up the night where he’d seen Clint’s fangs, scared to ruin the easy calm, especially when they’re here and they can’t get away from each other if they fight. The light catches Clint’s eyes, a flicker of gold in their deep blue depths.

“I owe you an apology,” Clint says, subdued. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you about the- about the blood thing. You were just trying to help.”

“Naw,” Bucky answers. “I shouldn’t have pushed you on it. You should get to make your own choices.”

Clint bites his lip with blunt human teeth and Bucky watches as he shifts a little. He seems to agree with Bucky’s words- with the treatment they’ve both endured from Loki and HYDRA, making their own decisions is a priority. Bucky thinks about how he was going to ask Clint out on a date one of these days, how Clint’s just as cracked and hurting as he is under all that humour and quick wit and lingering blue eyes. Maybe Steve was right, maybe he should be going for it after all. He inhales, lets it out before he speaks again.

“I like you the way you are, though,” Bucky continues. “You ain’t gotta worry. I don’t care about the bloodsucker thing.”

“You should care,” Clint says and then flushes, just barely, and Bucky’s not sure how he manages it when he’s technically dead and blood shouldn’t be travelling like that. It’s a strange thing, because he’s fairly sure in all the time he’s been at the compound he’s not seen Clint look embarrassed once. Not when he drinks the entire coffee pot, not when he ate a piece of pizza that had been stolen by a pigeon. And now he’s blushing over insisting Bucky should care about his state of being undead.

“Everyone in that place is deadly,” he says. “Wanda, Natasha- hell, even Steve could snap my neck if he wasn’t a sap. You think you’re dangerous because you’re not human, but even as a human you could probably try to kill me and it’d be difficult for me to fend you off.”

Clint opens his mouth, looking like he’s going to argue, so Bucky claps his metal hand over his lips. “What I’m _trying_ to say,” he says firmly, “is that you make the choice about whether you can kill me or not, and you choose not to. Bein’ a vampire don’t change that.”

He removes his hand then, flexes it quickly and ignores the gentle hum of it. Clint looks at it, then up at Bucky’s face. The look on his face is eerily intense, reminiscent of the way Sam used to study him when he’d first come back to them. He hadn’t liked it then, but in Clint’s eyes it feels more like he’s being searched for something good rather than being evaluated in case he’s secretly a psychopath. Clint sighs and sits back, opening his mouth to say something, and that’s when the shot rings out, cracking and _loud_. Bucky swings around, sees a man in white aiming at them, and it’s too easy to swing the rifle around and shoot. He sees the bullet hit his chest before the man falls, and if he doesn’t die from that he still won’t be able to hit them again.

Bucky glances back and Clint’s paler than normal, and one leather-clad hand is pressed to his chest. The blood is blooming bright, frighteningly red against his white shirt where his tac vest is unzipped, and his eyes are wide, panicked. _Definitely not immortal, then_ , he thinks with slight hysteria as he helps Clint yank his shirt off, pulling the first aid kit from his bag. He balls up Clint’s shirt, presses it to the wound and tries not to look like he’s panicking too much. It’s a direct hit to his chest, he shouldn’t even be alive as it is. But he’s not alive, is he? Not technically. Fuck, he should’ve been paying more attention to his surroundings instead of deciding whether to flirt or not.

“Do you- do you heal fast,” he manages to get out.

Clint blinks up at him, looking a little dazed. Probably going into shock. “I- not without more blood,” he says. “Shit. Didn’t bring any with me.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Bucky says shakily, and pulls Clint to his feet. Getting down from the tree’s going to be hard.

 

**

“Alright, bullet’s out and it’s wrapped up,” he says, more to himself than to the injured man sprawled on the ugly beige sofa. He ditches the bloodied rags and turns back with trepidation.

Clint’s eyes look too big in his face, reflecting the light in a way that reminds Bucky of wolves and other violent, deadly animals. It sends that familiar chill up Bucky’s spine, but Clint just looks blank, like the life’s draining out of him bit by bit. It probably is. It’s frustrating, knowing he can’t monitor a heartbeat to make sure the blond’s doing alright. All he can do is look at Clint’s too-pale face and hope that he’s going to be okay. He has to be okay, he can’t just die in this dumpy old safehouse because of some idiot with a gun. The panic surges up his throat, threatening to suffocate him, and he needs to touch him, needs to reassure himself that Clint’s here, that he’s still alive. Bucky pulls him up on the couch so he’s sitting, tries not to look as scared as he feels.

“Natasha’s bringing a spare bag from your fridge in the compound,” he says, steadying Clint when he lists to the side a little. “She’s coming as fast as she can.”

“How long,” Clint rasps.

“Tomorrow, if she breaks a few laws,” he answers.

She _will_ break a few laws, for Clint Barton, he’s sure. Clint doesn’t say anything to that, just makes a face like he might throw up, and Bucky can guess what that means. Natasha’s not going to be fast enough. Clint’s not even pretending to breathe anymore like he normally does, and he’s unnaturally cold and still under Bucky’s hand. He’s- he’s got to do something. Clint doesn’t notice him flicking the knife out of his boot, holding it behind his back with his left arm as he rubs along the edge of Clint’s ribcage comfortingly with the other. He needs to confirm it first, though, tilts his head until those dark, desperate eyes are looking at him directly.

“It’s going to be too late, isn’t it?”

“’m sorry,” Clint mumbles. “Didn’t mean to die here. Sucks.”

“You’re _not_ dying here,” Bucky says firmly. “I can’t- I can’t let you, Barton, you can’t fuckin’ die.”

Clint frowns at him sluggishly, and it’s only because he’s so slow and unresponsive that Bucky manages to flick the blade out and cut a line under his own collarbone without any interference. It stings, briefly, but it’s going to sting more when Clint hates him for this betrayal. Bucky knows in his heart that this isn’t exactly consensual, safe or what Clint would have wanted, but he _needs_ to do this. He can’t let Clint die, not when he could have done something about it, so he puts the knife down and then straddles Clint’s waist so he can’t escape. Clint’s eyes swing up to his, confused, and Bucky can see the exact moment he inhales and discovers the smell of his blood in the air. This close, it’s easy to see the way his pupils dilate, the way the vibrant blue gets swallowed by black. His stomach twists again in that now-familiar way when Clint inhales shakily, lips parting just barely.

“Oh, god,” Clint breathes, nearly inaudible.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Bucky says, almost a whisper, as his hand comes up to guide Clint’s head to the wound. There’s no struggle- Clint’s too weak, and his nose bumps Bucky’s neck, cold, and then his lips brush the cut. There’s a stray trickle of blood slipping down his chest, warm and sticky.

“Bucky,” Clint says against his skin.

“Yeah, fuck, that’s me. Come on, let’s- _oh_ ,” and he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Clint’s tongue drags up his collarbone, wet, and Bucky shivers from the sensation.

He hadn’t expected- he’d expected it to be frightening, painful at least, but instead it’s just Clint and that absurd mouth of his, gentle and methodic as he licks the blood away. Clint is trembling just a little, like he’s trying so hard to keep control even as his teeth graze Bucky’s neck, sharp and promising, and he- he kind of _wants_ it. He wants it in a way that feels almost as important as making sure Clint doesn’t die, something dark and needy bubbling up in him. His hand tightens in the back of Clint’s short hair, a little demanding, and Clint exhales cold on his damp skin. He can feel the cut healing already, the serum knitting him back together, and Clint makes a noise that sounds lost. He’s hurting.

“Do it,” Bucky whispers. “God, please do it, let me make it better.”

Clint’s teeth sink in then, deep, and that _does_ hurt, but it’s the kind of pain is making him see white behind his eyelids in a way that is exactly the opposite of unpleasant. He’s holding his breath tightly, lungs burning, and he shudders when Clint’s fangs recede and his tongue laves over the wound. He feels warmer under Bucky’s hands already, just barely, but it’s enough of a sign that he feels slightly better about this, and about how he’s apparently developed a biting kink somewhere along the way. Maybe it’s just a Clint kink. A gloved hand hooks in the fabric of his thin undershirt and twists, trying to pull him closer even though they’re pressed tight together already.

Bucky blinks and the world goes sideways, Clint knocking him down onto the floor like he’s feather-light. Christ, he really was holding back in training sessions. The minute he hits the scratchy beige carpet, Clint is on top of him, shirtless and bandaged, his still-gloved hands on Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky doesn’t even try to get away, his fight-or-flight reflexes sluggish in the face of a blond, bloodstained archer with a wild look in those crystal-blue eyes and red-bitten lips. Clint’s gaze is still fixed on his neck, where he can feel the blood pooling in the hollow of his throat. He looks dishevelled and _hungry_ and there’s that predatory glint Bucky remembers, like he’s going to be torn apart but in a way that’ll leave him begging and desperate for it.

Clint doesn’t move, just hangs over him and watches him like he’s waiting for something, and Bucky shifts a little like he’s going to sit up and Clint pushes on him, a low growl ripping from his throat. It doesn’t feel like he’s even putting any effort into the pin, using just those biceps alone. There’s none of the finesse and grace he has when he’s sparring, just flat strength. Bucky’s stomach twists again.

“Okay, okay, I ain’t going anywhere,” he says, voice breathy with the unexpected mix of apprehension and arousal. He’s not sure if Clint’s even consciously aware of what he’s doing, but he hasn’t shown any interest in ripping Bucky’s throat out so it’s fine. Clint’s eyes drag up to his face, dark and unreadable, and he tongues at his lower lip. He hasn’t made a move for the blood even as it starts sliding down the side of Bucky’s neck, warm and sticky. Bucky kind of hates how intensely he’s staring, like Clint could somehow sense how much this isn’t bothering him.

“Get down here,” Bucky says, too shaky to be an order, and Clint’s leaning down obediently to lick a stripe up his throat.

His heartbeat’s thumping so loudly in his chest it’s probably audible the next town over, and Clint makes a little moaning sound that vibrates against his skin. His hair’s oddly soft when it brushes Bucky’s jaw, a counterpoint to the quick, hot pain of his teeth. Bucky’s breath catches in his throat and he wonders if Clint can feel it, is glad Clint’s on his knees so their hips can’t brush together because he feels like he’s on the edge of a knife with how hot he’s getting from this. He lays there and stares at the ceiling, trying to remember the breathing exercises he’s been taught, until Clint nips at his collarbone and laughs, high and giddy.

“Better?” Bucky manages to ask.

“Fuck,” Clint groans, lips brushing his skin. “You taste so _good_ , Barnes, what the hell.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bucky answers, feeling a little floaty from the blood loss. Clint, though, he sounds like he’s been dipped in sex, rough and sweltering hot, and it takes all of Bucky’s self control not to run away to jerk off furiously in the bathroom. He needs to make sure it worked, first, and when he shifts Clint lets go of him this time, blissed out and pliant. The bandage is peeled off under shaky hands, and when Bucky traces up the skin of Clint’s bare chest all he finds is a raised, bumpy scar. Clint settles back on his knees to inspect it as well, eyebrows raising a little.

“Feels okay?”

“Feels _great_ , holy shit,” Clint answers, his stomach flexing a little under the metal fingers as he shifts. He tips his head back, and Bucky’s eyes get caught on the line of his throat and the tilt of his jawline. “Part of it’s the serum, but fuck. It’s so good, Buck, fucking orgasmic, like my nerves are on fire.”

He moans again and he’s basically writhing on top of Bucky now, shirtless and turned-on and beautiful. From this angle, Bucky can see the hard line of his cock trapped in his leather pants, and paired with everything else sizzling under his own skin. It’s _too much,_ and Bucky bites his lip so hard he feels it split under his clenched teeth, the taste of copper invading his mouth. Clint’s eyes snap down to him immediately, only a thin ring of blue visible in the black, and he sucks in an audible breath at the way the muscles under his fingers tense hard. That hungry look is back in Clint’s face, and Bucky holds his breath as Clint leans down so their faces are inches away.

“You really test my self-control, you know that, Barnes?” Clint’s voice is low, rough with arousal, and Bucky’s entire body tingles. “I’m trying to be a good person here, not taking advantage of you, and you just offer yourself up to me on every occasion like you want it.”

“I do want it,” Bucky says, before his brain catches up with his mouth. “Fuck.”

Clint’s eyes widen just slightly and then twist up into a surprised smile as he settles his weight back and their erections brush. Bucky bites back a groan, nails dragging down Clint’s ribs hard enough that raised red lines appear on tanned skin. Clint grinds his hips down harder, a positively filthy smirk on his face when Bucky gasps. It’s like being back in the electroshock therapy, but good, so good.

“You _like_ it,” Clint says, sounding faintly surprised, turned on. “You liked being bitten.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky replies reflexively, and jumps when Clint’s fingers dig into the healing marks on his throat. The pain sparks bright, and it hurts so good, shit. He holds back any noises, but his hips push up into the pressure of Clint’s leather-covered ass without any conscious thought, and Clint’s smirk gets wider. Dangerous, and he kind of likes that, too.

“You got a death wish, James Barnes? Or are you just a painslut?”

“Both,” Bucky admits breathlessly as Clint’s hands trail down his body and push his shirt up under his armpits. “But just for you, _shit_ , Barton, do that again.”

Clint twists at his nipple again and the hot shock ripples down his spine again, settles heavy in his stomach. There’s a bead of blood on his lip and Clint eyes him darkly before leaning in to swipe his tongue at it, and Bucky’s done. His left hand hooks in scruffy blond hair, tugs Clint into a proper kiss. He’s desperate for something, _anything_ at this point, the bite of pain and the buzz of arousal too much for his frayed nerves to handle. Clint’s blunt, human teeth nip at his lips, hard, and he moans into Clint’s mouth, gets a breathlessly erotic noise back. His nails are short but they still send Bucky’s system into haywire, scraping over his chest hard.

Clint’s still grinding down on him relentlessly and even though his pants are so tight it almost hurts, when teeth graze the marks on his neck he realises he’s shaking with how much he wants it. And then a gloved hand is slipping under his waistband, and the minute Clint’s calloused fingers wrap around his dick he’s coming with a gasp, arching up so hard he lifts Clint off the ground.

Bucky comes back to himself with lips on his collarbone, a gentle sort of pressure that’s at odds with the way Clint’s scrabbling at his own pants desperately, trying and failing to get the zipper open. It takes a minute to get collect his thoughts enough to actually think, and wow. He hasn’t come that hard since… ever, as far as he can remember. He pushes Clint’s fingers aside and deftly gets the fly down with one hand, and. Hmm. No underwear. It’s probably not meant to be hot- probably just laziness, if he’s able to predict the archer correctly, but he can’t deny it makes things easier as he helps Clint push his pants down his thighs. He’s impressively hard, sweat and hard muscle and half-lidded gaze as one hand begins jerking himself off. If Bucky hadn’t just come as hard as he did, he’d be getting hard just from the sight.

“Fuck, wish you could see the bruising,” Clint says, breathless and flushed, his other hand resting on Bucky’s chest. “So fucking hot, like you’re _mine_ , god.”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, reaching up to tangle his fingers with Clint’s. His motor skills aren’t quite up to anything but following the rhythm that’s already been set, but Clint seems satisfied anyway, twisting up into it and moaning. He’s more than okay with being claimed like this, even if the bruising won’t last long. “Yeah, come on.”

Clint groans out something that might be his name, hips jerking, and Bucky’s too boneless to brace himself as Clint shudders through his orgasm, come striping his stomach and chest. Clint flops down on top of him and he grunts, but the body on top of him is unexpectedly warm, almost the temperature of a normal human. He rests a hand on Clint’s heaving back, traces gently down the bumps of his spine. Back up to where the raised skin of the scarring on Clint’s neck is.  

“Christ Almighty,” Clint says into his chest, and Bucky laughs.

“That good, huh?”

“You shouldn’t have let me do that,” comes the reply, but there’s no bite in it. “I’m not safe, Barnes.”

“And yet I’m still here,” Bucky notes dryly. “You were in control the whole time, Barton, stop being a coward and admit we both liked it. Or was that someone else getting all possessive over marking me up?”

He feels confident about this, even in the face of Clint’s complaints. Especially about the way those blue eyes had been looking at him, like he was Christmas morning and birthdays and Easter all wrapped into one. Clint huffs out a cool breath against his skin, wriggles around so he can kick his pants off before he rolls back next to Bucky. Despite his argument, he still fits himself snugly against Bucky’s side, resting his cheek on a muscled bicep. Bucky’s hand lands in his hair and begins petting automatically, and he’s not entirely prepared for the purr-like vibrations that come from Clint. Are vampires somehow related to cats?

“Do you normally get off on biting people?” He asks, idly.

Clint chokes out a laugh. “God, no. I’ve never- I bit Natasha, once, on the wrist. She tasered me.”

Bucky snorts. Sounds typical, for the Black Widow.

“You still got that thirties sensibility that Steve’s got? Now I’ve deflowered you, do I have to slap a ring on it?”

“God, no. Won’t say no to a proper date after this, though.”

“I think I can handle that,” Clint answers, soft, fingertips at the edge of what feels like an impressive bruise. Bucky feels a smile curl at his lips.

 

**

 

Steve’s eyes go comically round when they enter the compound. Natasha’s walking behind them, where she’s probably rolling her eyes at the way Clint’s hand is tucked in the back pocket of Bucky’s jeans. Hell, Bucky is rolling his eyes at it, but it’s weirdly endearing, so he’s fine with it. What’s making Steve gape, however, is the impressive bruising Bucky spotted in the bathroom this morning. The bite marks themselves have healed up, but the bruises have bloomed in varying shades of purple and blue that had caused a smug look from Clint, once he’d been reassured Bucky was more than fine with looking like he’d been attacked. Natasha had just sighed at the two of them and thrown the bagged blood in the back of her car.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greeted faintly, looking a little pale.

Sam chose that moment to walk in with a cup of coffee in one hand, and he took one look at them and his eyebrows nearly went into his hairline. “Jesus __Christ__ , Barnes. That’s taking hickeys a bit far.”

“It appeals to Clint’s inner creature of the night,” Natasha says dryly.

“My what-now?”

“Is this some sort of initiation thing? Do I have to go through that if I go on a mission with him?”

“Ew,” Clint says at the same time Bucky wrinkles his nose at Sam. “Nope, nope, Bucky’s the only one for me, sorry.”

“I better be,” Bucky says, and Clint grins at him, all sunshine and low-key possessiveness, and he thinks, _yeah_. He can live with this.


End file.
